This is his guile,—he makes me act the host
To shelter him, and lo! he shelters me;
Asking for alms, he summons me to be
A guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost.
So, on and on, through many an opening door
That gladly opens to the key I bring,
From brightening court to court of Christ, my King,
Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore.
At last I trust these changing scenes will cease;
There is a court, I hear, where he abides;
No door beyond, that further glory hides.—
My host at home, all change is changed to peace.
William C. Wilkinson.
WEARINESS.
O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside Inn,
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that weak or strong
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned,
Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light
Direct from heaven, their source divine;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,
How lurid looks this soul of mine!